Resolve
by Elizabeth Reads
Summary: This is as much a study in social anxiety as it is an x Reader story because, let's be honest here, Stiles' "social anxiety" was NOT well written. No gendered pronouns used.


Why Lydia wants to have a "punks and rockers" themed party, you have no idea, but it's definitely your type of thing. Stiles calls as you're beginning to get ready.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Um. I need help."

"With?"

"Clothes. What the hell am I supposed to wear? I'm not punk! I don't own anything punk!"

"Jesus, Stiles - okay, I'll be at yours in a minute. Just need to grab some stuff."

"See ya soon, then."

You gather a few things and set off, calling a goodbye to your family as you leave.

Stiles is waiting by the door for you. "Hey. Whoa, that looks like a lot of stuff. Do you really need it all?" You grin wickedly. "Oh, you have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, do you?"

Stiles looks mildly terrified.

Up in Stiles' room, you get down to business. "Alright. Anything that's black, as in jeans and tees, on the bed." You pull a few shirts of your own out of the bag and add them to the pile. "What - I'm not wearing your clothes!" Stiles protests, and you give him a reprimanding look. "You will be if there's nothing of yours you can wear. You remember how Lydia gets about dress codes, right?" You both groan at the memory. "God, I can't believe she actually -"

"And the miniskirt too -"

"It was hot pink."

You shake your head, sifting through Stiles' uninspiringly small collection of dark coloured jeans. "Haven't you got anything… skinnier?"

"What?"

"Skinny jeans, Stiles. I don't want to make you wear mine, but if it comes to it…" His eyes widen. "Uh, I have something, maybe…" He digs around in his closet a little more and produces a pair that are somewhat more acceptable. Still not as figure-hugging as you would've liked, but they'll do. "Great. Put those on," you order, returning to the mountain of t shirts on the bed. You discard almost all of them - all of Stiles', anyway - and then turn back to him. "Okay. My Chem band shirt, or grey skulls?" you ask, and he frowns. "Those are both yours," he says slowly, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. "Thank you, Captain Obvious, now pick one."

"Uh, the, uh," he waves a hand around noncommittally. "The My Chem."

"Good choice. Put it on." You throw the shirt at him and discard the other one, and definitely don't watch as he pulls his current tee off. Maybe he's terrible at lacrosse, but he's still physically fit. Really fit.

"Okay, almost done." You move his desk chair over to in front of the mirror. "Sit."

"Why?"

"Just do it, Stilinski."

You uncap the slim black tube and he visibly recoils. "Whoa, hey, that's not eyeliner is it?"

"Yep."

"No way."

"Oh, c'mon," you plead, "it will look good. You'll look amazing, trust me."

"I don't want to look amazing," Stiles protests, but it's weak already. You can see right through him, always have been able to, and he can never resist your persuasion. "Eyeliner makes everyone look hot. Regardless of gender," you argue.

There's a pause, a silence a little too long. "I won't need to look hot if I'm hiding in the wine cellar all night," Stiles says quietly. "Oh. Oh, okay, Stiles." The social anxiety was something you'd totally forgotten about. He'd seemed so much better recently, but you'd been around Stiles for long enough to realise that it doesn't quite work that way a long time ago.

"Are you scared now?" you ask, and he nods a little. "It's okay, there's no one here except me. Can you - distractions help, right? Do you wanna put the tv on?" Stiles reaches out and you take his hand, running your fingers up and down the inside of his wrist in what you know is a calming gesture for him. "Y'know what, we don't even have to go. We could stay here, or go back to mine, have a movie night or something. Tell Lydia I'm sick."

Stiles shakes his head slowly. "No, I… I want to go," he says, his voice thick. "And I want to look as hot as possible." He still sounds skeptical, but you play along. "Hell, yeah. That's the Stiles I know."

Of course, he looks wonderful. Even more so than usual. But there's still something lacking, you think as you stand in the Martins' driveway. Confidence. You can't pull that out of a bag, though. "Hey, Stiles." He looks over at you, all rabbit-in-the-headlights, wide eyes, shaking hands. "Hey. You can do this. You look amazing and you're gonna go in there and have a great time. Right?"

"I look good and I'm gonna have fun," he summarises. "Got it." And there it is again, that steely resolve. He's refusing to let his mind get the better of him, for the time being at least. You smile, and his mouth turns up just a little in response.

You lose him as soon as you get in. Not deliberately, of course - but Danny is pulling him away to get drinks, and Lydia is complimenting your outfit and… you just forget, somehow. You forget that you're his safe place - it's you and Scott, usually, but he isn't here tonight. You forget that you're supposed to make sure Stiles is okay.

Until you feel a tug on the sleeve of your jacket, and you turn around and Stiles is there, looking somewhat desperate. "You need a minute?" you ask and he nods, mouth opening like he wants to say something but no sound comes out. You set down your drink and lead him through the crowd to the door you know leads downstairs.

You flip the light switch, because Stiles forgets to. Away from the dimmed lights of upstairs you register the tears glistening on his cheeks, and shamefully your first thought is of the eyeliner running. But Lydia will have makeup remover. You sit down next to him, where he's pushed up in the corner of the little room, shaking and crying. "Hey. Stiles. It's okay, it's just me. There's no one else here." But this is a full on panic attack now, and he's not thinking straight, not listening. You reach out to cup his face in your hands. "Stiles, look at me. Breathe. In. Out." He still isn't reacting. "Stiles." How do you get through to someone when they're like this? What emotion is stronger than pure unadulterated panic?

You kiss him, full on the lips for a long, long moment. Only when his body completely stills do you pull away, opening your eyes having not even noticed you'd closed them. His deep eyes catch yours and hold their attention. "How did you do that?" he asks quietly. "I just thought," your words crumble almost before they can leave your mouth, "you needed to feel something stronger than the panic. I thought your subconscious might assume I was Lydia. I'm sorry." Your voice is no louder than a whisper. "It's… well, it worked. Thanks," he says.

You sit in silence for a while before Stiles blurts out, "why would I think you were Lydia?"

"What?"

"You said you thought I might assume you were Lydia when you… kissed me," he says slowly. "Why would I do that?"

"You've had a crush on Lydia since third grade, right? So you probably think about kissing her more than me. I mean, obviously," you stumble over the phrase in a way that you don't in your everyday speech, and hope that he doesn't hear the sadness in your words.

"You're wrong," Stiles says, the volume of his voice so low that you almost miss it. "I don't have a crush on Lydia any more."

"Really?" You ask, thanking whatever deities are out there that Stiles isn't a werewolf, or he'd be able to hear the notable increase in your heart rate. "Why?"

"I just realised I didn't have a chance, I guess," he admits. "Oh, no, I'm sure you do-" you start.

"And," he cuts you off, "I like someone else now."

"Oh? Are they single? Are they here tonight?" You need to at least pretend to be excited for him, you think.

"Yeah, they're single," Stiles says, an odd tone to his voice that you can't quite discern. "And they're here. Right here." His face is so close to yours, his mouth mere inches away. It would be so easy to just -

And then, suddenly, his hands cup your face and he brushes his lips against yours. "Can I?" His breath tickles your ear and you nod, heartbeat racing so fast that you're sure even a human could hear it. This, this is what you'd hoped for since third grade, when Stiles had admitted his crush on Lydia and you'd realised that the strange tight feeling in your chest was jealousy. "God, yes," you whisper against his lips. He kisses you softly, once, twice, three times, pulling away a little each time before coming back for more. Your hands slide up his back, ghosting over his shoulder blades as you hold him close. And then his tongue is in your mouth and it's like every dream you've ever had about him, but a hundred times better because this, this is real.


End file.
